Facades
by gypsypower
Summary: Spoilers for "Intoxicated"; Casey's POV in the bar . . .


I had arrived with my vorpal sword poised in hand, ready to swing arcs around you. I found you sitting at the bar with a beer and a shot in front of you, as if you had something to celebrate. I raised my weapon and cocked back for the first swing, "Why did you talk to the defendant and her lawyer without prosecution present?" You looked up, clearly wounded already, far worse than any injury I could ever dream of inflicting, and I paused in my assault.

"_Plead her out Casey_."

The incredulousness of your statement made me want to throw up my white flag in surrender and plead, 'Why are you always trying to undermine me?' But the emotions swarming in the depths of your eyes were trying to tell some story of their own, and I knew this was not part of some personal vendetta to make me play the joker in court. People think I am some social imbecile, and they may not be entirely wrong, but even I could tell you had something inside you that was screaming to be let out, whether you wanted it to or not. I think everyone has been there at least once in a lifetime, and usually the thing screeching behind the skin finds its way out one way or another. I tend to think the 'or another' hardly ever ends up being positive. So, I lay down my weaponry, and listened.

I knew a rough outline of your past, but nothing substantial, no details or emotions involved with your upbringing. We were merely colleague; at best I might say we grabbed an occasional (one) drink outside work, usually pertaining to a case. Yet, here I was offering an ear to cry into instead of your, I now noticed, untouched beer. You started your story, an eerie deja vu to the case that lay in waiting for tomorrow. It was twisting my heart to hear you speak so candidly, so sorrowfully about the emotional trauma involved with growing up with an alcoholic mother, if you could even call her that. I could barely make eye contact with you, the pain I saw there almost engulfing us both. I wanted to place a hand over your mouth and tell you to stop. I didn't want to know what transpired between your mother and you. I didn't want to hear that she hurt you. No one deserved that, especially not you. I didn't want to hear that you hurt her. I couldn't fathom you hurting anyone, minus rapists and pedophiles. You are always a savior in my mind. My brain was stuck in neutral grinding its gears trying to decide what would be worse to hear.

"_She threw the bottle down and it shattered . . . pieces went everywhere . . . she picked the jagged part up and came at me . . . _"

I know my shock and horror were splayed across my face like a neon sign; I think part of me was hoping you'd feel awkward and stop—the selfish part of me. Of course, I think that part of me was also slightly joined with the larger part of me that was becoming increasingly nauseous listening to your heartfelt story. I had my demons of my own, but this was so different. I was looking at you and trying not to see the victims we deal with every day. The thought of you as a victim had never really crossed my mind before—you were invincible; the reality of you as a victim exploded my emotions. Even though I am not an overly physical person, I was compelled to reach out and embrace you, but I didn't want you to confuse my empathy with pity. Just as abuse can harm a body and soul, pity can smother a soul as well.

"_I kicked her again . . . hard . . . and then I ran out the door . . ."_

My heart felt like it was molting in my chest. I wanted to sew the pieces together and make you wings, so you could rise above all that history, all that pain. One lone tear was making its way down your face. It seemed so heavy and full, as if it knew no amount of crying could ever totally fix you. But, then again, I had never known you to feel impaired. From all I have seen of you, you always seem so put together and in control. I have envied that about you. Of course, it also occurred to me that I don't really know you at all. Obviously. This made me incredibly remorseful, yet at the same time immensely impressed by your ability to live day to day with such an amazing aura. You became both more naked and more veiled to me at the same time.

"_Because talking about it makes it real . . ."_

That I could relate to. That I know about. The false hope that by remaining steadfast and silent within ourselves, our deepest shame will never claw its way out. But I learned that silent suffering only persists for so long; eventually shame shreds insides, leaves you bleeding out alone. And then the desperation sets in; survival mode takes over—mouths open, graves are dug, or rage wins. It is oh so hard to for jaws to loosen, to let words come flowing out, and once secrets are revealed it seems they might drown you. Sink or swim, deal or die. And then after the tempest, it is oh so much easier to lapse back into silence. It's such a dangerous place to be, treading deep, still waters alone. I have done it so long I am numb, evidently you have too.


End file.
